


Now That We Talk Of Dying

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock unfurls his fingers slowly, watching them straighten, stiff from clutching the rope and watches it drop to the floor with an unceremonious thud. It lies there against the floorboards, unmoving, immobile like a parasitic worm found dead beneath the skin and he thinks to himself- <b>is this really it?</b></i> Sherlock considers the timeless topic of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now That We Talk Of Dying

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to- [Since feeling is first](http://archiveofourown.org/works/273000). The title is from T.S Elliot's "Portrait of a Lady" because I don't think I could find a line more fitting. Credit and my love to[](http://lareginaphantom.livejournal.com/profile)[ **lareginaphantom**](http://lareginaphantom.livejournal.com/), the best beta in the world.
> 
> Warnings: Suicide Ideation and suicidal thoughts. Also thoughts of sex and death in general.
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own. *sob*

**Now That We Talk Of Dying**  
   
It starts with a noose.  
   
His hands burn, fingers stiff and crooked from being wrapped around the thick rope, pulling and tugging until the knot is tight. They’re red, dry from the stray flecks of dust from the cord, from the burn of the strands as they stroke fast along his palms as he yanks. Golden hanks of rope stand out against bloody red hands, his pale skin blotchy, a thin wall before the well of colour the blood beneath his skin creates  
   
Sherlock sits back, watching the noose swing from his hand as he holds it out directly in front of him, watches it sway like a pendulum, to and fro, a measure of time, of life.  
   
Life. A topic stretched and morphed into many different depictions. Some distasteful. Some ugly. Some tolerable. Although none held in any specific honourable theory. Life is science, the creation and coincidence of all things. The chemistry behind existence itself, the need to procreate, to kill and survive. The emotions powering the human race and the tedium time creates.  
   
One thing Sherlock realised as a child, watching the birds flitter past in their garden, his father absent, his mother indifferent, engrossed in the silver object she carried around called a mirror, Mycroft in the kitchen, seeking comfort from Audrey the cook, is that life to him is always very much the same thing.  
   
It is boring.  
   
Sherlock spares a moment to analyse the definition of the word. He mouths it, rolls it across his tongue, curls his lips around the vowel. It feels familiar, a comfort almost, to have the word sit on the back of his tongue, form over fractions of milliseconds, less than a moment away from falling, spilling into the cutting, brutally honest remark Sherlock would say. He’s aware he uses it too often, that perhaps the word itself, the actual expression had become somewhat of a cliché. But in some sense, that cannot be helped. He cannot change what is true just because it has become boring.  
   
He frowns at the thought, the words forming and dying with little moments to breathe. How many times has such a thought crossed his mind? Too many to recall with precision.  
   
Has the idea itself become overused?  
   
Sherlock unfurls his fingers slowly, watching them straighten, stiff from clutching the rope and watches it drop to the floor with an unceremonious thud. It lies there against the floorboards, unmoving, immobile like a parasitic worm found dead beneath the skin and he thinks to himself- _is this really it?_  
   
He tucks his knees closer to himself, hiking them up to rest under his chin, his eyes staring forward, unblinking and glazed with thought. Short snippets, shreds of coherent but fleeting ideas that form and die as quickly as the next begin. Windows opening, overlapping, the click of the mouse as he closes the useless ones, the ones he doesn’t need any more. They continue to crop up though, useless memories, the growth in the Petri dish on the table, the woman with heavy eyeliner at the bus stop, her eyes red as she just realised her husband had cheated on her. The man with the black bags, released from prison mere hours ago after being imprisoned for rape, the amateurish self inflicted tattoo on his arm of a poorly drawn knife indication of his stay for the past few years.  
   
He thinks of all of this in the short space of a few seconds, feeling the faint hum of a computer sound in his mind whenever he clicks another window closed, another useless thought shut off- _click click click._  
   
 _Delete, delete, delete._  
   
Sitting silently in the chair, Sherlock thinks of everything. Various thoughts, too quick to chase, too vivid to capture, too disturbing to want, flutter aimlessly in his head, thoughts of himself and whether or not he would scar if he were to wrap the noose around his neck. Thoughts of life, whether or not there was any use bothering, not in want of death-at least not yet-but in seeking out much sought normality, whether such regularity was appealing. He certainly didn’t think so.  
And then inevitably, his thoughts turn toward the one thing Sherlock seeks quietly after in his complicated little mind.  
   
John.  
   
 _John._  
   
Those four letters sound in his mind, echo with relief, seismic waves floating from it with grace, with vibrancy and Sherlock can’t understand how so much feeling can be in one word. He closes his eyes, hiding behind his lids, the sudden darkness welcoming, a blank canvas for his thoughts.  
   
He sees John’s image. Sees that tight, wrinkled smile, the corners of his eyes creasing, his deep eyes glinting with so much emotion it's both horrifying and breathtaking to see.  
   
Breathtaking in the fact that Sherlock is stunned someone can feel so much without a lie to hide behind.  
   
But the prospect that many others can see such a sight is horrifying beyond measure.  
   
 _Everyone. Every person we’ve seen, Every person John’s ever seen. At work, outside, at Scotland Yard. They’ve seen his eyes, they see what he feels, and they’re a part of it now-_  
   
The voice murmuring this, wheezing softly with careful precision in his head is bitter, is sharp and sour at the thought of sharing John with anyone else.  
   
But Sherlock knows he can’t keep him to himself. It’s not _proper_. It’s not what people do.  
   
He’s certain that owning another human being is perhaps illegal as well.  
   
 _And John wouldn’t want it._  
   
It doesn’t stop Sherlock from wanting to shield John away though, to hide him from the prying eyes ready to tear into john, reading all those unhidden thoughts, his secrets, everything John shows in his earnest gaze.  
   
Sherlock opens his eyes and finds himself greeting the sight of the worn ceiling, yellowing slightly with age. His head is tipped back against the armchair, falling to the side as he stares off toward the doorway, feeling the indents of the embroidered petals press softly into the skin of his cheek like a kiss. His fists clench tightly, fisting the fabric of his trousers as he slowly agonises.  
   
“No . . .” he murmurs, tortured with exasperation that he’s managed to disturb himself once again with these troublesome emotions he has for John.  
   
 _You can’t do this. You’re not allowed._  
   
He focuses on the pattern of the chair, the interweaving foliage, the branches and flowers and he wonders idly if John ever felt them against his neck when he sat here, if he felt each strand of cotton twisted in such intricate designs, petals and stems and flowers. Sherlock’s skin prickles slightly at the thought of touching John’s skin cells, embedded into the chair from his own sitting, now transferred onto Sherlock’s skin.  
   
The thought is both delicious and slightly nerve wracking. Once again he finds himself dancing on the cusp of propriety, the balance of normality, the desperate urge to own John blurring the lines he always found hard to trace. They smudge in his mind, dusty charcoal blown away, the simple act of knowing what not to do dimmed to a faint shadow across the canvas of boundaries. One he wishes he didn’t have to look at every day and try and guess what was once there.  
   
 _Possession:-_  
   
 _-The act or fact of possessing_  
 _-To own something_  
 _-The state of having, owning or possessing something_  
   
He sighs heavily.  
   
 _John is not mine. I cannot own him. I cannot possess him._  
   
Sherlock finds himself at his wits' end, though. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what not to do.  
   
John is the one who sets the boundaries, who tells him where the line is. But he says nothing in this situation, doesn’t draw them back on, point to where Sherlock should stand, what he should say, when he should stop before he leaps. And it drives Sherlock mad not knowing what to do.  
   
He cracks his eyes open, blinking at the ceiling, the black spots of damp still spreading.  _John hasn’t fixed that yet._ They blink at him, watch Sherlock closely and he can’t help but feel scrutinised in return. The build-up of unwanted moisture lurking on their ceiling, mould festering upon each dark patch, the bacteria thriving, living, breathing. Sherlock frowns, the unmistakable feeling of being watched crawling under his skin. But of course, mould cannot see.  
   
 _It can’t._  
   
He racks his memory, trying to remember the exact point he realised it was there.  
   
Thirteen days, eighteen hours and forty-five minutes ago.  
   
Give or take. The numbers aren’t entirely accurate. The possibility of missing a minute is probable. He stands by his first calculation however, finding the accuracy, or the near precision, somewhat comforting.  
   
The back of his mind twinges in frustration over the lost minute, though. _Forty-five minutes or forty-six?_  
   
It doesn’t matter now.  
   
It’s been thirteen days, eighteen hours and forty-something minutes since he and John spoke about their first kiss.  
   
The second kiss hasn’t followed yet. Sherlock can’t seem to find a moment perfect enough to administer such a groundbreaking action. It’s amazing how so much could change between them with one touch, and yet everything around remain perfectly intact. There will be no implosions, no screams, no storms. Nothing.  
   
Just skin on skin.  
   
John’s soft lips meeting his own in greeting.  
   
 _How do you do? I’m John._  
   
 _Sherlock Holmes._  
   
Skin cannot talk though. It can only stretch and cut and touch. Sherlock knows this. Any idiot knows this.  
   
And yet he cannot erase the thought of his own skin greeting John’s as if they had never met. The electricity in such a touch, like fireworks exploding in each pore, each surface caressed by the other man. It’s a stupid thought, something he knows is not true and nor will ever be.  
   
But his heart stutters nonetheless and before he realises it, his thumb is skimming his bottom lip softly, the thought of John’s fingers brushing there like ambrosia to his mind.  
   
 _God, John, when will you touch me? Do you not realise the madness you are subjecting me to-_  
   
“Sherlock?”  
   
He snaps thoughts shut, their screams echoing violently in his skull. _SHERLOCK!_  
   
The steps creak softly, protesting under each heavy footfall until they stop, the door squeaking as it opens, the hinges, now beginning to show the signs of age, in desperate need of an oiling. John walks through carrying two Tesco bags, his arms straining from the weight. He groans as he shuffles to the kitchen, depositing them on whatever clean space of worktop he could find before stretching, turning around, blinking in vague bewilderment at the kitchen table.  
   
 Sherlock knows that expression, the soft awareness of regard toward himself in John’s mind, something he can’t quite decide whether to approve of or not. John blinks, Sherlock finds, rather a lot when he’s puzzled, the excessive batting of eyelids almost mesmerising to a certain degree. Sherlock has, on some occasions, attempted to count the amount of blinks John conducts within ten seconds. It is not an easy task; Sherlock increasingly finds himself distracted by something else. John’s pores, perhaps, the slow build up of oil and salt when he’s hot. The slight blond stubble across his upper lip and jaw line, a barely visible golden trail begged to be followed by warm, wet kisses down past that hard neck. The creases in the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the faint dents and lines like a map; the map of John Watson. Each line, each scar with its own life, its own story and background.  
   
As absurd as it sounds, the notion does not stop Sherlock wanting to run his tongue over each one.  
   
 _Would you let me?_  
   
He has to. He would. John would.  
   
 _He would._  
   
It takes him a moment to realise John is speaking, his mouth opening, forming wondrously around each word, the vowels and _oh god, he’s beautiful._  
   
“You’ve been here all day?” John asks, frowning at the kitchen table. Sherlock wishes he would look at him but says nothing, humming slightly in affirmation.  
   
“Then why didn’t you throw this out when I told you to?” And he holds up the Petri dish left festering on the table for- Sherlock can’t quite remember how long it’s been there for. He needed it for something, though. John grimaces in mild disgust, the furry green growth within the dish a stark contrast against his red cotton shirt.  
   
Sherlock frowns but leaves his head tilted against John’s armchair, rubbing the back of his neck against the floral patterns, wondering vaguely if enough of John’s skin cells are now on him to truly call them part of one another. Although specifically the desquamation of skin cells wouldn’t be enough, and surely there’s little possibility of the epidermis absorbing another’s skin cells. Dead ones to be exact.  
   
To truly become part of John though, or to have the man become a part of him, would rely heavily on fluids. Blood, saliva, sweat, oil and semen. Sherlock considers them doubtfully, the risk of infection parallel to the surreal possibility of having an actual part of John within him. Nonetheless, it is a nice thought, Sherlock muses, having a little piece of John inside him, with his cells, in his blood. The notion of eating John, however, is both distressing and strangely wondrous.  
   
He wouldn’t be able to do it, though. The fantasy is there, perhaps even a little humorous, a thought simply to distract him from the simple fact that _I am in love and I don’t know what to do._  
   
Sherlock, remembering he was supposed to answer John, turns his gaze to him, studying him carefully. “Hmm?”  
   
John pinches the bridge of his nose and puts the Petri dish down. “You need to throw it out.” He turns around and briefly under the harsh glare of the fluorescent kitchen bulb, Sherlock can just about glimpse a dark film of moisture building up around the collar of John’s shirt. It must have been warm outside, although judging by the clouds and the unmistakable thrum of static in the air, he concludes a muggy humidity.  
   
He gazes at the damp patch. What does John Watson taste like?  
   
 _Tea and Wool._  
   
The thought is funny but not strictly true. John would taste of so much more. Like Tetley tea, because it’s the only brand on sale at Tesco’s for the moment, and sugar. He’d taste like cotton and Comfort Pure fabric softener because Mrs. Hudson gave him some of hers so his jumpers didn’t ruin. He’d taste like sweat, damp salt on the back of his neck, in the dips of his collarbones. Like antibacterial hand gel on the webbing between his fingers.  
   
Sherlock wants to bury his face in the crook of his neck, under his arm, in the dip where thigh meets groin and smell that musky scent that would only be John. That smell of sweat and semen and flesh and hair and man. And he would willingly expose himself to John, bare his neck and offer himself.  
   
 _Right there on the carpet, on his armchair, in the kitchen._ Sherlock wants to crawl on his knees to John right now and press himself to him, to suckle lovingly on his cock, to spread his thighs and be fucked right then and there on the cold, hard kitchen floor by John Watson.  
   
To strip themselves bare of everything, of clothes and pretences and normality and skin. And just crawl into each other, beneath everything, all the flesh and muscle and bone.  
   
Sherlock wants to put his head under John’s ribcage and hide there, rest his ear against that hot, beating heart.  
   
 _Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud against my ear._  
   
“Sherlock?”  
   
The voice is hazy, foggy as if Sherlock is submerged in water. He focuses, realising belatedly that John is still talking to him, frowning in worry.  
   
“Sherlock, are you-”  
   
“I need it.” He blurts suddenly, his head resting on the back of the chair as he blinks at the ceiling. The damp is laughing at him.  
   
“Need what?” He can almost see John’s brows furrow in a frown.  
   
 _A certain Dr. John Watson._  
   
 _Although need itself is rather relative. Need itself is never absolute, it follows want. We want food before we need it. Or in some cases, we need food without actually wanting it. It can never be an independent factor._  
   
 _What was my point?_  
   
 _Can I NEED John? Do I need him to survive? Like food, water or blood? Do I need him like air?_  
   
Sherlock looks at John, who is awaiting an answer. “The dish, John.”  
   
“Oh, yeah?” John remarks. “What for?”  
   
 _Experiment?_  
   
 _No. No. He won’t believe that again. Something else._  
   
“If you throw that away, John,” Sherlock starts, sitting up, his legs curling beneath him as he turned to glare at John. “A woman will die.”  
   
John rolls his eyes, before discarding the dish into the sink, his lips quirking slightly in dry amusement. “Right, because that excuse still works on me.”  
   
Sherlock doesn’t quite pout, it would be beneath him to do so. Instead he throws himself back into his seated position, glaring at the patterned wallpaper. “If I was telling the truth, John, and your lack of belief in my astute integrity killed that woman, I have absolutely no doubt that you’d regret your words.”  
   
“Integrity?” John laughed. “Right. All you like doing is growing weird things just to annoy me.”  
   
It’s not true. Most of it wasn’t true and Sherlock says nothing, sinking further into the chair. He has no energy to argue at the moment, overcome by a mental state of lethargy. John called it a _black mood_ , the delicate yet hazardous moments when Sherlock is left without a case, a distraction. He feels tired, weighed down by this sense of ennui.  
   
 John’s arrival was nice, it was. But he can feel the claws of depression snag against his mind, creeping slowly as they always did whenever Sherlock was left with nothing to do.  
   
He blinks at the noose lying on the floorboards, coiled like a snake. The poison, venom within it, is death. Or the possibility of death. The chance of it. And he can’t help but wonder briefly how it would feel around his neck, impossibly snug against his throat.  
   
 _What would John do if he found my body?_  
   
It’s an intriguing thought, one Sherlock isn’t ashamed to admit he’s thought of before. The idea of John walking in, stepping into the kitchen, unaware that as he turns around, he’ll see Sherlock hanging by his neck-  
   
No- _No, that isn’t right._  
   
-Sherlock’s skull burst open by the bullet.  
   
Would he shoot himself? It would be awfully messy and John would be left to clean it up because he wouldn’t let Mrs. Hudson do it. Perhaps Mycroft could hire a cleaner?  
   
But the idea of John on his knees, scrubbing Sherlock’s brain from the rug, the floorboards, is somewhat . . .  
   
 _Nauseating?_  
   
 _Fascinating?_  
   
One of them. He isn’t sure which. The idea is making his stomach churn slightly. _John’s hands in my blood, my skull, touching whatever is left of my brain-_  
   
“Suicide? Bit beneath you, isn’t it?” John’s voice breaks through his thoughts and Sherlock blinks slightly, suddenly aware that the man is seated on the chair opposite, regarding the noose with a sceptical raise of the eyebrow.  
   
Sherlock’s fingers twitch against his knees.  
   
“Is it?” he replies quietly, his gaze firmly affixed on the rope. _Why did I even make it? Was it for a case?_  
   
“You’re not planning on topping yourself, are you?”  
   
 _Not yet. What does it matter? Everyone expects Sherlock Holmes to spiral into destruction. I expect it. What will happen when there is nothing left to do? No cases to solve, no puzzles. Nothing to cure this insistent boredom . . ._  
   
 _What will happen then?_  
   
 _What will happen to John? Will he grow bored of me? Will I cease being “Brilliant” to him?_  
   
“Suicide Ideation,” Sherlock murmurs, his cheek pressed against his knuckles. John blinks at him, the small quirk in his eyebrows, a signal to Sherlock.  
   
“You’ve lost me there.”  
   
Sherlock flicks his gaze toward him, watching John carefully, the noose a heavy presence between them, both aware but unwilling to acknowledge it.  
   
 _John’s lips are dry._  
   
“Suicide Ideation,” Sherlock elaborates, gaze firmly affixed on the small patch of dry skin on John’s bottom lip. He wants to lean forward and tug it off with his teeth. “The formation and extensive planning of suicide.”  
   
John coughs slightly. “No, I mean, I know what it is. I just . . .” he frowns slightly. “Why are you thinking about this?”  
   
Sherlock shakes his head. “I said no such thing. Merely debating the idea of it.”  
   
“Ok . . .” John nods. “Right. Because that makes perfect sense.” He smiles wryly and the sarcasm isn’t lost on either of them.  
   
 “People plan their deaths all the time, John.”  
   
There’s a small shift in the air, a gentle pull in another direction as the words sink in, as John’s eyes flicker in the direction of the kitchen, a frown tugging at his brow. “But you’re not actually planning your death though. And people don’t really plan it, do they?” he pauses, dragging his tongue quickly over that dry patch of skin and Sherlock can feel it beckoning him.  
   
 _Bite me!_  
   
“It’s more impulsive . . .” He looks uncomfortable, a forced stoicism giving away the game. “Spur of the moment.”  
   
 _He’s thinking about himself_ , Sherlock reflects mildly. _No doubt the idea of suicide has crossed him before._  
   
The thought of John dead, though, killed by his own hand, renders Sherlock cold. Beyond his control, scenarios arise, John’s calloused, firm fingers taking hold of his gun, bringing it to his mouth, under his chin, against his temple. A slight twitch, a gentle nudge of the finger dropping the hammer, the gunpowder ignites, hissing for a fraction of a second before exploding. The bullet is pushed out at a velocity by the force of the air, ripping through John’s skin, the blunt head of the bullet cracking though his skull, his brain, his life.  
   
And there would be nothing left. John Watson would be dead.  
   
 _Dead._  
   
What would have happened if they did not meet? Would John be dead? Would Sherlock be dead?  
   
John saved him that night, used his gun on someone other than himself. The idea however, the possibility that were the choices different, if their meeting never occurred, one or both of them would have ceased to exist. Narrowly, and Sherlock only realises this now, sitting, stifled under the harrowing gaze of John’s deep eyes, that somehow, they had both escaped death on that same day.  
   
Sherlock swallows hard. “Is it a spur of the moment to decide whether to shoot yourself or not?” He receives no answer, but expected none anyway. “Whether it would be easier to swallow pills than jump from a building?” He feels soft, weightless suddenly under this dawning awareness that had suddenly overcome him. “To decide what to write in your note.”  
   
John licks his lips again and that patch of skin is laughing at Sherlock. After a minute, he finally speaks. “Why are you suddenly so obsessed with death?”  
   
Sherlock blinks. That’s wrong. He knows straight away, the moment his mind registered the words, took them into account, that John is wrong.  
   
 _I’m not obsessed with death_ , Sherlock thinks blandly. _I’m obsessed with life. I’m obsessed with beating it, with controlling it._  
   
 _I’m obsessed with you._  
   
“You aren’t planning on killing yourself, are you?” John turns to regard Sherlock, smiling dryly. “Because I’d rather know now then later. You know . . . in case I need to clean up.”  
   
Sherlock can’t help but smile, not because of John’s humour, but because he knows that somehow, he’s made the man uncomfortable. John’s humour, his dry wit at times like these, is his defence, to hide all signs of discomfort he may feel, weaknesses.  
   
John is still staring at him, waiting for an answer and Sherlock feels his skin crawl, tingle slightly. His sole attention was on him and Sherlock couldn’t help but bask in the sensation, the rays of John’s eyes on him. He suddenly feels restless, trapped by the gaze, his heart beat booming in his ears.  
   
 _John . . ._  
   
His throat tightens, constricts on itself and he can barely breathe past the lump, his fingers itching to launch forward and press his lips to John's. God, how he wants to. That dry tag of skin on John’s lips looks so tantalising, Sherlock wants to thumb it, scratch it away with his nail. He suddenly wants to press his hands to John’s face, read him as if he was blind, touch him.  
   
 _What is this? What?_  
   
This sudden yearning is so agonizingly painful he wants to cry, to curl in on himself and hide. Never has an emotion been so strong, so damnably controlling and Sherlock fights to keep his composure, to meet John’s eyes and ignore the electricity sparking between them.  
   
“What do you think, John?” Sherlock finally murmurs, resigned to the conversation, to John’s lack of acute understanding, bitter with the situation and his burning mind slowly but surely filtering away into nothing. “What do you honestly think? Use that brain of yours and _deduce_.” The sarcasm cuts into both of them like a double edged sword, the venom smarting.  
   
John’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, his hands whitening a tinge as they tighten into balled fists on his lap. “I think you’re being stupid.” He pauses slightly before continuing, fixated on a far spot somewhere behind Sherlock. “And melodramatic.”  
   
Sherlock continues to watch him, his head cushioned on his hand, bony knuckles chafing against his cheekbone. He should feel offended and vaguely, he thinks he is. But it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before and he fights not to sigh in frustration. He thought John would think differently.  
   
“Everyone says that,” Sherlock remarks blandly, thinking distantly about where he put his nicotine patches.  
   
“Well, what do you want me to say?” John snaps. “Oh, Sherlock, please don’t kill yourself, I’ll miss you terribly! Who’s going to pay the rent?” The words trip from his mouth in mocking fashion, stinging slightly and Sherlock can’t help but glare at John’s response. “Look, if you really are going to off yourself, please, please, please, please put a mat down first. It saves on the cleaning.” He leans back slightly, idly scratching at a burn mark on his chair. The air calms somewhat but the lines in John's face deepen a fraction, his eyes darken with thought as if haunted. “I don’t know why you’re asking me this . . .”  
   
Sherlock, although loath to admit it, is hurt. His gut sinks in dissatisfaction, feeling somewhat cheated by John’s reaction. _What did you want, though? Tears? Begging? Pleading?_  
   
 _You don’t even want to die._  
   
 _Do you?_  
   
Sherlock lets a smirk twist onto his face, ugly and spiteful.  
   
Cold.  
   
“I would’ve thought you’d have the most . . .” he pauses, mind glowing viciously when he sees he’s caught John’s attention. “Experience . . . in the matter.”  
   
There is a terse sort of silence that descends into the room, stifling almost. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to expect, contrary to common belief that he can read John’s mind. John is silent, his eyes pinned solely on the burn mark he is digging his nails into on the chair, scratching and peeling the edges away. As a doctor, Sherlock assumes John knows better than to worry such an open cut, even if it was to an inanimate piece of furniture. He can’t help however, but feel uneasy all of a sudden, caught, frozen stiff to his seat as he watches John scratch and scratch and scratch-  
   
 _Beneath the skin-_  
   
Fabric. It’s fabric.  
   
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” John smiles softly, eyeing Sherlock with heavy eyes as he flicks a torn piece of haberdashery away. Sherlock’s throat tightens. “That’d I’d know. I don’t though, not really.”  
   
He licks his bottom lip quickly, blinking down at the jagged rip in the chair. “I was too much of a coward to bother finding out.”  
   
 _You’re not a coward-_  
   
Sherlock freezes on the thought. And John smiles at his reaction.  
   
John Watson is a courageous man. But would he have been braver of he went through with it? Put the bullet through his head?  
   
 _No._  
   
 _No._  
   
No.  
   
Does it then apply to Sherlock?  
   
“This is what I mean,” John mutters, stiffening ever so slightly as Sherlock chokes on his own hypocrisy. “I know you, you’re _bored_. You’re not even depressed, you’re just bored. But that’s enough for you, isn’t it? It just sets you off?”  
   
It’s not rhetorical and Sherlock nods numbly.  
   
“You can’t just . . . _plan your death_ because you’re bored. Because you have nothing else to do.”  
   
“Why not?” Sherlock snaps. “Why can’t I?”  
   
“Because death . . . and life- it’s all uncontrollable forces! You can’t control it-”  
   
He’s wrong. “You’re wrong. People control life, their life. You control yours, don’t you?” He doesn’t register the sharp, accusatory barb marring his words. Nor does he register the slight snarl surfacing, his lip curling in distaste, eyes narrowing accordingly.  
   
“Not all the time, I don’t,” John bites back, fire licking his words. Sherlock smirks.  
   
“Ah. And why not? Found God, have we?”  
   
“God has nothing to do with this!”  
   
“So he doesn’t now, but he does when you’re staring death in the face?”  
   
John glares at Sherlock. “You do know you’re grasping at straws for a bloody stupid argument, don’t you?” he spits. “That’s different. Why don’t you try having a bullet wedged in your shoulder in the bloody, fucking desert, while everyone else is shooting around you? Then we’ll see what you do.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth quickly, evidently frustrated by the memory. “Yes, alright fine, you’re right. I do control my life. But there are certain times when I find it completely out of my hands.”  
   
“Really?” Sherlock drawls, suddenly tense. He feels cold, his skin clammy as sweat trickles down his ribs, sticks against the back of his neck, salt crystallising with every slow, second, slinking past. His fingers tap insistently on his knee, clammy and pale, moving to cease the trembling within his bones.  
   
 _What’s happening to me?_  
   
“And when are these times?” he continues. John returns his stare with full force, knocking Sherlock back.  
   
“When I’m with you.”  
   
Sherlock visibly recoils at the words, surprise, if not nothing else, racking through his system. He blinks at John, realising vaguely that he should do something, say something. But he can’t. He doesn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Hurt or angered.  
   
 _Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump._  
   
His heart thrums quickly against his chest, the staccato hurting almost with its intensity. His fingers cease their tapping and begin to unfurl and rest gently on his knee as his body slows, time now a disjointed, alien figure in his mind. His blood feels thicker, clogging his veins like syrup, his stomach turning to water and sloshing sickeningly. He hasn’t felt so in tune with himself since his last hit with the cocaine, the shock of John’s admission like a lethal drug poisoning his body.  
   
John’s lips quirk into something that is neither a smile nor a grimace. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why you are so obsessed with death now . . . with controlling it.”  
   
 _Control._  
   
Sherlock chokes around a breath.  
   
 _I’m wanting to control death because everything is slipping from me. Look what you’ve done to me, you’ve taken all my direction away, John. I can’t stop thinking about you, what you eat, where you go, what you do, your skin and eyes and hair and clothes and body and blood and mind. I want to touch you and kiss you and know you. I want to be inside you, to touch your heart and your brain. You are my life now and I can’t have you, I can’t control you._  
   
 _How long can I love you like this before I go insane?_  
   
 _You’ve taken away my control. My grasp on life. You’ve killed me._  
   
 “You can’t . . . shoot yourself in the head, Sherlock, just because you know you can. What are you going to do then? You’re dead! You can’t just . . . define it like that, death, I mean. Or even life.  Measuring it, it’s impossible!” John rubs his eyes tiredly and Sherlock wants to lean forward and kiss them. And he would do if he wasn’t so terrified at the moment.  
   
 “I know you, I know what you’re thinking. You want to analyse life like you do a corpse, or . . . or an experiment or something! But . . . but you can’t. Sherlock, you can’t just put it in jars and label it! And you know this.” He breaks off in a short laugh. “Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you, you’re not a child. God . . .”  
   
John sighs heavily, gazing at Sherlock with weary eyes. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” It’s almost a plea.  
   
 _Impossibilities_ , Sherlock thinks. _You’re talking about impossibilities._  
   
But he says nothing and John shakes his head, rising to his feet despite the protest of his creaking knees, and gathers the noose in hand. “I hate philosophy . . .” And he departs with a low murmur, heading toward the kitchen.  
   
In the absence of John, Sherlock stares at the spot he was once in, gaze flickering thoughtfully toward the small tear in the fabric of the chair. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be too pleased to see that.  
   
He exhales slowly, his mind eerily quiet as he vaguely ponders on the notions of jars. Measuring life, could he do it? People defined it all the time- life is God. Life is human evolution. Life is the living and breathing organism. Could life be defined as what he was? What Sherlock lived by? Because if that is the scenario, he finds that he can certainly assess his.  
   
 _John._  
   
It is John Watson.  
   
The rest, Sherlock believes for the moment, is static.  
   
 _Could I put John in jars though? Calculate him as a person?_  
   
The thought certainly wasn’t _impossible_ , if that’s what Sherlock feared. Improbable, perhaps. Nil on being an actual possibility for now, but not whole heartedly unfeasible. He thinks about this, runs the calculation through his mind- everything that created and made up John Watson. From hair, to skin, to blood, to organs. The image of dozens and dozens of jars littered around the kitchen, containing pieces of John, flitters through Sherlock’s mind and his throat constricts slightly.  
   
 _Will John let me have his heart when he dies?_  
   
Sherlock’s fingers clench against his trouser leg, twisting the fabric tightly.  
   
 _I’d take care of it. I’d put it in a jar._  
   
He can hear the rustle of plastic bags and cupboards opening.  
   
 _Put it somewhere safe. On top of the kitchen cupboard, beside my bed..._  
   
But how would he do this? Everything would need to be preserved with the utmost precision and care _(Would I have to kill John myself?)_ , the organs and body handled carefully. Tie John to the bed, drug him, poison him, keep him alive but comatose as Sherlock slowly began removing him piece by piece. Like a puzzle taken apart. It wouldn’t hurt . . . not if John was under an anaesthetic-  
   
 _STOP IT._  
   
His mind screams at him, the echo rattling violently as the clinical state of Sherlock is interrupted, the cold, heartless calculations and preparations are destroyed.  
   
 _Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it-_  
   
Inside, a man, an image of Sherlock Holmes, the man he wants to be, the man he is that no one sees, runs to the thought of John and clings to him, falls to his knees and sobs like a child, pleading between tears.  
   
 _Don’t hurt him, you can’t hurt him, don’t kill him, god don’t kill him, don’t hurt him, he’ll go, he’ll leave, he’ll die-_  
   
Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s shaking, doesn’t hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, doesn’t feel his stomach turn on itself, sweat trickling down his skin. He sees black spots of pressure as he presses the balls of his hands to his eyes, willing, ripping the sight and memory of such thoughts from him. He can’t- he can’t hurt John. He won’t. He won’t do it.  
   
 _Delete, delete, delete._  
   
His eyes hurt, threatening to implode before he finally peels his hands away, blinking at the salty moisture on them- _Tears? Sweat?_   He hasn’t felt this exhausted in a long time, both physically and mentally drained, as he sits there, tilting his head back to will the nausea away, watery eyes glaring up at the black patches of mould on the ceiling.  
   
 _John still hasn’t fixed that._  
   
“You didn’t fix the damp,” Sherlock says, his throat clogged, blocked by his own heart. He doesn’t know if John hears him or not but the words needed to be said. Something needed to be said. Anything to drown out the sound of his aching heart beating pathetically.  
   
He doesn’t realise when John walks back in, doesn’t hear the footsteps against the boards. When the man finally steps into his view, it is a welcoming but wholly petrifying image, the sight of John so trusting and easy in Sherlock’s presence.  
   
John doesn’t smile nor does he frown as he dumps the contents of his arms in Sherlock’s lap, who hesitates a moment before looking down. It’s the noose, now, however, cut into pieces, thick slices of rope frayed and chopped raggedly. It barely resembles a noose anymore, the threadbare, ragged thing now just a rope. It doesn’t feel like death.  
   
Sherlock vaguely wonders how John managed to tear it apart like that before looking up, meeting the deep, penetrative gaze of the other. Silently, and without a word spoken, John leans down and gently, ever so softly, presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, his lips, that dry patch of skin, grazing the edge of his eyebrow.  
   
“Just stay,” John finally murmurs into Sherlock’s hair, the fleeting hand on the back of his neck tender before he retreats and leaves as silently as he came.  
   
 _Just stay._  
   
Sherlock sighs as the words tumble into his mind. The double meaning isn’t lost on him and he can’t help but smile at John’s subtlety. The rope is heavy in his lap, a firm but comforting pressure against him, grounding, and Sherlock thinks he could stay like this forever.  
   
And so he does what he’s told, what he really wants to do, and stays. He folds himself around the rope and finally, his mind a blank canvas of peace, closes his eyes.  
   
Fin

A/N- Thoughts are always lovely. Also expect a third installment. ^^


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